After dark vapors have oppress'd our plains
     For a long dreary season, comes a day
     Born of the gentle South, and clears away
From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.
The anxious month, relieved of its pains,
     Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May;
     The eyelids with the passing coolness play
Like rose leaves with the drip of Summer rains.
The calmest thoughts came round us; as of leaves
     Budding—fruit ripening in stillness—Autumn suns
Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves—
Sweet Sappho's cheek—a smiling infant's breath—
     The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs—
A woodland rivulet—a Poet's death.